


Masks are for the Orlesians

by new_kate



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: DA Halloween Week, DAHalloween, F/F, Fancy Dress Party, Fluff and Crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 23:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12568532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/new_kate/pseuds/new_kate
Summary: Varric throws a party, fancy dress mandatory. Hawke and Isabela take the lazy way out.





	Masks are for the Orlesians

**Author's Note:**

> Written for DA Halloween Week ran by https://dahalloween.tumblr.com/, prompt 7 - All Souls' Day - Dress up.

“We have to dress up for the party,” Hawke said. “It’s fancy dress, Varric was adamant about that. We should go to Jean-Luc’s, see what he has.”

Isabela yawned and lazily stretched on the silk sheets Hawke’d been saving just for her visit. Her long, elegant toes spread in the air as she arched up, smooth muscle and strong limbs uncoiling, taught and shuddering for a moment, just like she was a short while ago, writhing under Hawke’s fingers. Then she rolled over and tucked herself against Hawke’s side.

“It’ll be something ugly and ridiculous, I bet. Huge dusty skirts and those horrid masks. Besides, it’s raining. I suppose we could get dressed and go out, get wet and cold and waste an evening rifling through gaudy clothes in a shop full of stuffy nobles. Or we could stay right here.”

“If we show up to the party dressed as ourselves, Varric will - eh, you’re right. Whatever he does, worth it.”

Isabela chuckled, caught Hawke’s wrists and pressed them into the pillow, rolled on top of her and began laying a slow, thorough path of lovebites around Hawke’s throat.

“Hey, why don’t we go as each other?” she suggested, shifting down to Hawke’s breasts. “You dress up as me, and I dress up as you.”

And Hawke, distracted as she was, agreed without question.

Later, when she stood in front of the mirror in Isabela’s high boots and short tunic, her pasty Fereldan ass flashing whenever she moved, her skinny hairy thighs on full display, Hawke finally understood what a mistake she’d made.

“This doesn’t even fit,” she said. “I mean, look.”

The front of Isabela’s tunic was hanging empty, Hawke’s small breasts lost in the folds of the cloth. The corset rode up on her hip bones and constantly stabbed her left armpit with some kind of concealed blunt blade.

“Don’t worry, we’ll make it work. Turn around, bend over a bit and hang onto to the bed post.”

“We don’t really have time for another go…” Hawke started, but eagerly did as she was told anyway, because Isabela not once had less than stellar idea in the bedroom.

Isabela yanked on the laces of the corset, and all Hawke’s ribs collapsed like springs and pushed her lungs somewhere toward her throat. She gasped for breath, with all the air suddenly squeezed out of her. Isabela comfortingly patted her ass and somehow, against all possible laws of nature, pulled the laces another inch tighter.

“How do you fight like this?” Hake rasped on a shallow inhale.

“Habit, sweet thing. Do you feel how straight your back is? Oh, you look amazing.”

She slipped two folded scarves inside the tunic, carefully adjusted their placement, tightened the front laces, bringing Hawke’s breasts closer together, and suddenly Hawke had a luscious cleavage, as if by magic, out of nowhere.

Isabela took off her necklace and fastened it around Hawke’s bruise-ringed neck. The high choker made her hold her head tall and proud. When Isabela tied a scarf over Hawke’s hair and painted her eyes, she could barely recognise herself. She tilted her hips, trying for Isabela’s swagger, and was mesmerised to see how her body moved in an unfamiliar way, how exposed she was, how light and free.

Isabela buckled her gloves on Hawke’s wrists and slipped the red ribbon over Hawke’s arm.

“It’s yours,” Hawke said.

“Yes, but you’re me. And I’m not me if I’m not bragging about having you. Right, my turn.”

She threw Hawke’s leathers and armour on the bed and stared at them thoughtfully.

“You know, I have no idea what to do with all this. How do you get into these?”

It took a while, as usual, to tighten all the belts and fasten all the buckles. Encased in red leather, criss-crossed with black belts, Isabela’s body looked sinful: curvier, stronger, a deadly weapon. Hawke would ditch Varric’s party in a heartbeat and spend the next hour slowly peeling her armour off Isabela again, but she wanted to show her off like this, to see everyone turn glassy eyed with lust and envy.

“I’m not wearing dog paint on my face,” said Isabela and pushed away Hawke’s hand, dabbed red and ready to place the finishing touch.

“It’s called kaddis. It’s made from pure, fine minerals, specifically to my order. The enchantments are the best money can get, the colour is carefully matched to my mother’s family crest. My mabari helped pick the best recipe out, by smell. Do you know what their sense of smell is like? It’s many times better than our sight. They see things with their noses we can’t even dream of. They pick up any impurity. For all we can tell with our human senses, that golden eye paint we bought the other day is made from ground vahrest turds, but to a dog’s nose--”

“Hawke, I know your dog, she’d be all over that.”

“Kaddis is good for your skin! Besides, you always say I look hot when I wear it!”

“You do, and I don’t know how you pull it off.”

“Fereldan’s birthright,” Hawke said and made a series of hand gestures that were meant to signify Fereldan pride. “Well, fine, don’t blame me if nobody recognises who you’re supposed to be.”

They arrived early, like they’d promised, to help Varric greet and mingle. He wore red and blue buttoned up jacket with golden pauldrons, checkered puffy orange trousers and a fake beard, braided up in five neat plaits.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Hawke asked.

“Paragon Ebryan, don’t ask. Merchants’ guild will get it, they’ll love this. Hawke, wow, where have you been hiding all this? Uh, Isabela, is this a good time to confess that I’ve been having all manner of impure thoughts lately? What are you dressed as, some kind of desire demon?”

“Me,” said Hawke. “See, I told you, nobody would get it without kaddis.”

“Oh yeah, these are your clothes, right,” Varric muttered. “They don’t look like that on you.”

He dashed off on some host business, and Hawke and Isabela went upstairs, into the grand hall he’d rented for the party. A few minor nobles, not important enough to turn up fashionably late, shyly clung to the far wall, looking pale in their bright fancy dress. As far as Hawke could tell, they were all dressed as Orlesians, or perhaps as cupcakes. Fenris was in a chair by the fire, in his everyday clothes, ignoring the guests and reading a book.

“You’re not in costume,” Hawke said. The nobles were sneakily eyeing her bare legs, and she was beginning to feel self-conscious again.

“I am, I’m a Dalish,” he said and tapped his cheek. There were some thin squiggly lines drawn there in black ink, half-hearted and not particularly symmetrical.

“You don’t think Merrill will be offended?”

“No, she already saw me, she said it’s sweet I tried, you know how she is. Besides, she owes me. She’s coming as a dragon, she had me carry her tail and wings through Lowtown. She’s late, some sort of mishap with the head.”

“I should have gone as a dragon,” Hawke said. “Why didn’t I even know I could have gone as a dragon? I’m going to have serious words with Merrill. If she was making a dragon costume, she should have at least asked me if I wanted to be the one to wear it, right? Are the others here yet?”

“Aveline and Donnic are downstairs, helping to pick wine. They’re both dressed as nugs. It’s as endearing and terrifying as you can imagine. Anders is late too, he’s—-”

“Anders!” exclaimed Varric downstairs, from the door. “You - um, what are you?”

“Sexy Circle mage,” Anders answered. “Why? This is a popular costume, lots of people wear it.”

“Where? In brothels?”

“Um, yes?”

“Look, I appreciate the concept, but - wow, did you get that pierced just for this?”

“No.”

“Right, anyway, we need to cover you up a little.”

“I need to see that,” Isabella said.

“Me too, but I’m sure we will,” Hawke said, watching, entranced, the way her belts shifted over Isabela’s bosom. “Before the place fills up, should we check out the balcony?”

They ran out into the warm summer night just as the first wave of the guests filled the lobby with peals of shrill laughter. They were going to go back inside, dazzle and mingle, but first they could have a moment to themselves.

Hawke scooped Isabela up, cupped her ass and carried her to the balcony railing. They kissed quickly, and Hawke fell on her knees, already breathless with want. They’d done this so many times and she still adored the thrill of these stolen quickies, after a battle, or before the Champion’s meeting with the city officials: she’d just tug Isabela’s tunic out of the way, and…

“Oh, there’s a fatal flaw in my plan,” she said, staring in despair at a dozen tight buckles as the room behind them filled with people. “It’ll take me forever to get you out of this.”

Isabela laughed, making the leather creak over her chest, and pulled Hawke up, for more kisses.


End file.
